


Save the Last Dance for Me

by thefoxesfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Gen, Lonely Sherlock, One Shot, Post-The Sign of Three, Sad Sherlock, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefoxesfriend/pseuds/thefoxesfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*** (SPOILERS!!!) ***Sherlock makes the solitary trip home from the wedding in TSoT, sitting alone in a cab and returning to an empty flat. There is a lot on his mind, and a lot on his heart, which he's left exposed for the first time in his life, and the sad stillness of this quiet journey, after the finality of the events that just occurred, runs through the detective as he makes his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save the Last Dance for Me

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of feelings after TSoT (didn't we all?) and this is just me getting them out. Enjoy!

It didn’t have as obvious a finality as standing on a ledge, but make no mistake, Sherlock thought, this is a far more irreparable ending. 

It had all come full circle, now, like the spinning lights in the dance hall behind him, and the roundabout chords of that fading Frankie Valli song. 

Sherlock popped the collar of his coat, and it was like dropping the visor on a suit of armour. He was no longer a person, or even a human being, he was a consulting detective – the only one in the world; prepared to do what others won’t…blah, blah, blah…all those distracting words that fell around his brain like a desperate mantra against the sentimental ache. 

John, his wife Mary, and their unborn child. Molly Hooper, and her fiancé, Tom. There was simply no room for a man like him, who would never fit into those neat little domestic holes of ordinary life. 

The last vestiges of the wedding song had been replaced by the usual clamour of London at night, and here, to the tune of half-heard shouts in alley ways and stumbling drunks, of lazy drizzle on black cabs that sped down rain-slicked streets, the crunch of a stepped on newspaper and the fading echoes of sirens, was where he could perform his favourite dance. It was a pity that now; it was to be a solitary one again. There’s nothing quite like it, having a partner…

And when they’re gone, their ghost always follows the soloist, like a shadow. 

Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab. His battle dress felt stiff underneath the coat, and it put up a little resistance as he moved his arm. Sherlock felt a sudden urge to rip it off him, but he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He would take it off carefully and lay it on his bed. He would put in on hangers, making sure not to make any creases in the precious fabric, and then he would store it in the back of his wardrobe, away from the lab coats and the police uniform and all the various disguises that somehow always ended up stained with chemicals or blood. 

“So, rough night?”

“What?”

Sherlock hadn’t realised that the cabbie had spoken. He never had much luck with cabbies. Usually never spoke to them, either. Why would he, if John sitting next to him? He had been leaning his head against the window, flattening out his dark curls against the pane as he counted the storm drains and re-memorised the streets. Another mantra. Another distraction. Of course, the cabbie would deduce that he was drunk, and since he was going home alone…pity. He hated pity. 

“No.”

Sherlock answered in a low growl, and it was enough to end the conversation until they arrived back at 221B. 

“Thanks, mate. You take care of yourself.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. The rain fell harder, dampening his curls. As he turned the key, they started to mat against his forehead. 

He closed the door behind him. The place was eerily silent. Even he would admit to that. With heavy footsteps, he ascended the stairs, keeping all his features composed. He reached the door to the apartment and walked inside, popping down the collar of his coat before collapsing into his chair. There was no way he’d let the tears fall, just no way, even with the sight of that chair…

No. 

He got up and threw his coat aside. He faced the mirror above the mantelpiece, and a wave of self-loathing swept through him as he stared at his impeccably dressed reflection. He still couldn’t get that song out of his head…

…I didn’t even know her name  
But I was never gonna be the same…

Ugh. Delete. 

“Not this time, Sherlock.”

Oh, great. It was Mycroft. It was always Mycroft when he’d made an incorrect assumption. 

“Remember what we said about strong emotional experiences…?” 

“...They leave a permanent imprint on the brain. Yes, yes. Of course. That’s why sentiment is a…”

“…Chemical defect found in the losing side. Very good, little brother. If only you listened to my advice, you wouldn’t be coming home the loser tonight.”

SHUT UP!

His voice echoed in the empty flat. Sherlock got up and looked at himself in the mirror again. He adjusted his tie, closed his eyes and raised his arms into position. Then he danced, all night, until the music stopped and sunlight leaked into the flat.


End file.
